


Interface Spoiler

by greywash



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (Largely implicit) spoilers for 4x5, 5+1, Additional Warnings Apply, Drabble Collection, Endings, Five drabbles and a not-a-drabble, I'm.... just.... gonna leave this one here, M/M, Post-4x5, See Story Notes for Warnings, Tropes, Zero apologies, extremely meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 21:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: [...or: just because I maybe see it coming doesn't mean I have to take it lying down.]





	Interface Spoiler

**Author's Note:**

  * For [achray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/gifts).



> Officially for this week's prompt from **[themagiciansreccenter](https://themagiciansreccenter.tumblr.com)** , "[Fear and Bravery](https://themagiciansreccenter.tumblr.com/post/182967264798/what-an-episode-this-weeks-prompt-theme)," and unofficially as a gift for **achray**. **Warning for disturbing content**. I keep my warning policy in my [profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile#warnings) and am always willing to answer private DW messages or [emails](mailto:greywash@gmail.com) asking for elaboration or clarification on my warnings for a particular story. 
> 
> The story title, as well as the section titles, are all from TV Tropes.

### 5\. Belated Love Epiphany.

Eliot comes to slowly. Feeling heavy, cotton-headed: tied up, too, he realizes, when he finds himself blinking up at Margo and goes to reach for her, but can't. "Uh—Bambi," he says; and she shudders, bowing her head: and Eliot doesn't— "It's me," he says, finally. "It's—"

"I know," she says, voice cracking; then pushes to her feet and leaves.

Fen comes over, to cut the ropes. She's not looking at him.

"Uh—so, hey," Eliot asks, "is Quentin—I thought I heard him—"

—but he knows already, doesn't he? Even before Fen, not looking at him, says, "He died."

 

 

### 4\. Star-Crossed Lovers.

"Quentin," Eliot manages, "Quentin— _baby_ —" with blood in his mouth and his hands and oh, God, _Quentin_ —

"El," Quentin manages; and Eliot presses his mouth to Quentin's mouth like that can stop it and his hands to his guts like that can stop it and "I love you," Eliot gasps, "Christ, I l-love you, I'm sorry, I want it again, I—ah!" around the searing-yellow rip inside of him: "I want _everything_ again—God— _Quentin_ —"

"I know," Quentin says, and his voice cracks, "I love you, I know—God, _Margo_ —"

"They're on their way," she is saying, faint, far—away—

 

 

### 3\. Together in Death.

Mesopotamia, Eliot is thinking, smells like blood and charred meat; and tastes like Quentin, when Eliot drags himself across the dirt to press his mouth to Quentin's sticky mouth: _one last kiss_ , Eliot thinks, delirious, winding his hands up in Quentin's hair, _one last kiss_ : Julia's body sprawled two meters away and Alice gone for the help they know won't get here in time: _one last kiss_ , he thinks, over and over, again and again and again—

"I should've—said yes," Eliot explains, "I wanted—to say—yes," and Quentin gets an arm around him, barely: _one last kiss_. _One_ —

 

 

### 2\. Unrequited Love Switcheroo.

"So, um." Eliot laughs, a little. "I—how long was I—because you're, you know—"

"Old," Quentin says, quiet; "I was going to say, 'Starting to go grey,'" Eliot admits; and Quentin ducks his head.

"Fifteen years," he says, quiet. "For me. Um—twenty-seven for Margo, the—timeline dilation isn't consistent, for a while she was—"

"So the hot princeling is," Eliot interrupts; and Quentin rubs at his face.

"Her son," he says, "our son"; and then sighs. Still not looking at Eliot.

"I mean," Eliot manages, finally. "It's not like I thought you'd wait"; and Quentin bows his head.

 

 

### 1\. True Art is Angsty.

_Eliot—love—_

_For a long time I thought I knew this story, where I fight for what I care about against everything the universe can fucking throw at me and if I just love you enough—but that's not how it goes, is it? It's simpler than that: because we all fought, and we both lived, and Margo didn't; and that was my fault. It was my fault, El, and I can't ever fix it, and I'm sorry, I just can't—_

—but Eliot can't bear to finish it, so he crumples it up, and gathers Quentin's body into his arms.

 

 

### +1. Surprisingly Happy Ending.

After, Margo spends about four hours squeezing his hand so hard it hurts, while Faye and Lipson poke him and prod him and take about a gallon of blood and ask him to stick his tongue out and stare at him with fifteen different scopes and then have him squeeze something that looks like a giant dildo but apparently measures magical potential energy; and then when they finally leave him alone for half a minute together, Eliot finally looks up at Margo, sitting on the edge of his bed, and her face does something genuinely painful-looking, in her first real attempt at a smile.

"I'm glad you're back," she says; and then her expression crumples: and Eliot pulls her down to kiss her, trying not to look at Quentin, who is still standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched, his back pressed against the infirmary's far wall. In his narrow hospital bed, Margo slides her arms around Eliot's neck. Squeezes; with her breathing all funny and her face hot against his neck, dripping onto his throat: when she lifts her head up she's a disaster. Eliot pushes himself up, reaching for the box of Kleenex on the side table, and Quentin, without asking, goes for the bottle of lotion that the healers keep by the hand-washing sink and comes over, squirting some onto a tissue so that Eliot can help Margo wipe the mess of her mascara off her cheeks.

Margo laughs, thick in her throat. "This is going to make me break out, you dick," she says, and then her mouth trembles again, her shoulders drawing together as her hands tighten up in her lap. "I need to go wash my face," she whispers, not looking at either of them; but then she puts her hand on Quentin's wrist and squeezes, looking up at him: "Yeah," Quentin says, face softening. "I'll stay."

So Margo goes, and then it's. 

Just them, again. For the first time in—

"I was so fucking scared, El," Quentin says, and then touches, only just, the back of Eliot's wrist. 

Eliot swallows. "Me too," he says.

"He told me," Quentin says, and stops. His mouth— "He told me," twisting, "that he'd felt you die, I—"

He stops.

Eliot swallows, hard, and—turns his palm up. "I didn't die," he says, and then swallows. "I had to—I still have shit to do. Okay?"

Quentin takes a breath; and Eliot interlaces their fingers, and Quentin lets him. Tugs, and Quentin lets him, coming to sit on the edge of Eliot's rickety infirmary bed, barely looking at him. His back and shoulders are tight. He's lost weight, a little. He looks like he hasn't washed his hair in about a week.

Eliot props himself up, as best he can. These fucking beds. He keeps—sliding down, but he wants—while Quentin's on this whole trend of letting Eliot just do what ever he wants to—Eliot finally grapples himself properly up to sitting, and—

"So, hey," he says, and kisses Quentin.

When he pulls back, Quentin's lips are parted. His face—

"Don't fuck with me, El," Quentin says, very quietly; and then squeezes his eyes shut tight, when Eliot puts his hand on Quentin's stubbly cheek.

"I'm not fucking with you." Eliot swallows. "Is it—I should've said yes a year ago, I _wanted_ to say yes, I—I was an idiot and a coward and I should've said yes and _kept_ saying yes, and I. I've spent the last. God, _century_ , it feels like. Wanting to get back to you so I could take it back." He rubs at Quentin's jaw, aching: "Is it too late?" he asks, with his—his fucking _heart_ , in pieces inside of him as Quentin lets out a long trembling rush of breath and presses his mouth to Eliot's: opening—

—just opening. Opening up for him. All over again.

_Oh_ , Eliot thinks, dizzy, wrapping his arms around him. _Thank God_.

"Hey, none of that in here," Faye says, far away; and Quentin pulls back, brushing their foreheads together, then—shadowy, close—looking Eliot right in the eye. "Your touching erotic reunion can wait for later," Faye is saying, which is— "Eliot, I need to prep you for an electrostatic baseline—"

—untrue, that's just flat-out _wrong_ : "Yeah," Eliot says, "can _that_ wait for later?"

"You're not discharged yet," Faye replies, crossing her arms; and Quentin blinks, and then turns towards her, and says mildly, "That's okay, then, I can stay."

Faye glares at him, but then grabs for Eliot's chart. "Keep it PG, all right? I don't need to see any of it in a non-professional capacity"; and Quentin nods, very solemnly, and then—the second she's gone—climbs up gingerly to lie down against Eliot on the narrow mattress—on top of Eliot, really. Eliot doesn't mind. Maybe all their beds should be half-width twins. He slides an arm around Quentin's back, breathing him in, as Quentin tucks an arm around Eliot's waist, letting out a long, slow sigh.

"Margo's gonna be so mad." 

"What?" Eliot looks down at him. Quentin's eyes are closed. "Did you have a bet going or something?" If so, Eliot'll have to—appreciate the vote of confidence, probably, but—

"What? No, she's—I took her spot," Quentin explains, and then snuggles closer. "It's okay, I can move, when she comes back."

"Like hell you can, I just got you down here." Eliot squeezes. "She can have the other side."

"There is no other side," Quentin mumbles. "This bed isn't even big enough for me."

"This bed is _exactly_ big enough for you, don't go anywhere," Eliot tells him. Squeezing again: _God_ he feels good. He feels— _right_ , how did Eliot ever— "She can make room down by my feet or something. We'll figure it out."

"She could sit in your lap," Quentin suggests.

"Kinky," Eliot says approvingly; and Quentin presses a smile to his shoulder, and then slides a hand— "Also kinky...?" Eliot says, a little uncertainly. "And—um, sort of noncon for the healers, so—"

"I'm not going to jerk you off or anything," Quentin says, and flattens his hand out against Eliot's belly. "I'm just—I just want to know you're here."

"God." Eliot takes a breath, squeezing Quentin tighter. "God, I'm so sorry, Q": but Quentin just shakes his head, and slides his hand up under Eliot's shirt to his ribs.

"It's okay. You're okay. We're okay. God." Quentin sighs. "I just want—maybe the next clusterfuck could _not_ involve anyone taking you away from me, maybe? Could we maybe just. Get a different plotline, for a while?"

"Mm, that _would_ be nice." Eliot kisses his forehead. "The universe is really going to really have to branch out, though," he points out: "get out of its comfort zone—" with his lips moving "—be bold—be brave—" against Quentin's warm skin; as Quentin's hand starfishes out over his heart.

"That's okay," Quentin says, squirming to get comfortable—oh, blessed agony— "It's the universe. It contains multitudes."

"Well, that's what I hear, anyway," Eliot agrees, petting his back, wanting—every notyettoosoon ecstatic warm thing, as Quentin settles in against him, tipping his chin up to look at him: lovely, wide-eyed.

"So I bet it can manage something new, next time," Quentin suggests, "if it tries"; Eliot bends his face down for a kiss.

 

 


End file.
